


Peace Hunter, Peace Vampire

by SuiCausa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Bloodborneish Themes, Enemies to Lovers, Hunters, Lucerni, M/M, Vampire!Dorian, VampireHunter!Iron Bull, Vampires, Venatori, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiCausa/pseuds/SuiCausa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years Iron Bull's attempts to eradicate the dangerous vampire coven, the Venatori, has been hampered by a vampire that plays a far different game  than his usual kin. Wherever Venatori are found, Dorian is never far behind and people end up dead. Iron Bull hasn't been able to catch him in the act to deal with him properly, but in the mud-covered streets of Denerim that's finally going to change. </p><p>However Dorian is no Venatori, he belongs to the Lucerni coven and they want the Venatori just as dead as Iron Bull does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grey Butcher

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty Painted Masks' next chapter is done and in editing, but I have been eager as shit to work on this story so I decided to write the first chapter for it! You'll notice it's significantly shorter than my usual chapters, but hopefully this means it won't take as painfully long for me to update it each time!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone in the Adoribull Chat that has encouraged me to write this little idea, and of course to the very lovely Tryxal for helping me build a world full of sexy vampires and their qunari husbands. ♥

The creature was like a shadow, moving as effortlessly as a breeze and just as difficult to track. Iron Bull had known he’d be a slippery one to hang onto, he was honestly surprised he’d managed to track him this far. It meant one of two things: Either his quarry had no idea he was being followed, or more realistically it meant he was being lulled into a false sense of security, the vampire he was after hoping to lure him into a trap and surprise him.

The first was a possibility that set fire to the predator in Iron Bull’s veins and urged him onward, however his prey was no neophyte so Iron Bull was certain it was the second. A dangerous creature that had evaded justice for years, there was no way the he was going to let this night end in anything but blood. He’d been waiting far too long.

They got reports of problematic activity whenever a Venatori cell began to act up. Bodies would start to hit the floor and before long it wasn’t safe for anyone to leave their homes.

Vampires were nothing if not predictable creatures.

The Venatori coven had infested this city like rats, starting in the sewers and the filth and waste before slowly rising upwards. Tevinter was the cesspool in which they all originated -- the filth that bore every haughty vampire fuck who thought their power made them worthy of godhood, who thought that the glory days of Tevinter old should be restored, ushered in by blood and dark magic.

Denerim must have seemed like an unlikely place but the slums were always receptive to power in a pretty package. They spread like fire, every night that the Venatori hunted in the streets more were added to their ranks. Fledglings, fresh and violent and ready to attack anyone to acquire the power their Sires promised. They were cannon fodder, there to distract hunters like Bull and his Chargers so no one noticed that there was something far more powerful slinking into the shadows towards the seat of the cities power.

Iron Bull had played this game dozens of times before. Every time he’d found _this_ vampire lurking in the shadows, watching the chaos that it’d wrought from safety, thriving on the death it had brought to the innocent. The man was a monster, if Iron Bull was to stop the cycle and _hopefully_ cripple the Venatori, he would have to bring this vampire down.

Only recently he’d been able to affix a name to the creature, and now slinking through the dog-reeking slums of Ferelden’s capital was he finally honing in. There was no doubt the Vampire was powerful, but so was Iron Bull. Grey Hunters were bred to prey on the predators, their blood sang with similar power -- something which was better not to think too much about, just be fucking thankful it was there to keep the power balance in check.

Besides, Iron Bull had an advantage. He’d spent plenty of time in Denerim before, was used to the smell of dog that permeated it, the _mud_ that seemed to be the national color and the freezing fog that was the weather of choice. A shitty place for a vampire, especially one that rarely left his lavish lair in Tevinter. Iron Bull was counting on it.

The vampire came to stop at a street corner, Iron Bull watched carefully as the man adjusted the dark cloak around his frame to knock off  moisture from the previous rain, the leech apparently considering which way to go. Iron Bull squinted to catch the name of the street corner, if something nearby was important to the man, then it was good to know where he was.

The cloaked figure slunk into the shadows and head up a mud covered alley that Iron Bull was fairly certain was nothing but residential houses. His interest was piqued further as he followed after, staying with the shadows himself and keeping a distance as he trailed behind, always with eyes on the target so that he wouldn’t slip away into the cracks yet again.

The street ended with a little courtyard that had a well in the middle, a dead end. Iron Bull stayed near the street exit and waited, coming to a total stop as he slowed his breathing and became still as stone. The vampire walked towards the well, reaching into his cloak as he approached it. Iron Bull watched carefully as the creature hauled back on the rope to raise the water bucket, the vampire reaching into the bottom of it nonchalantly and pulling out _something_ that had apparently been left there for him.  

A dead drop? If the man had just picked up information from the Venatori this would be the perfect time to take him down. One dead bloodsucker and some new information would be just the kind of way Iron Bull wanted to end the night.

With calm, easy motions he stepped out of the darkness into the middle of the street, moonlight shining off silver skin lighting him up like a damn beacon. The vampire spun to face him as Iron Bull casually pulled the massive axe from its sheath on his back, the blade jagged and gruesome, inlayed with silverite for that extra bite against the corrupted blood of his enemies.

“Blowing your cover already? Here I was just starting to enjoy putting on a show.”

Iron Bull had expected a voice considerably more _vampire_ than the smooth silk that danced across his ears instead. Usually they lost their ability to do more than snarl and hiss, their words sounding like a lot of angry snakes or something equally cliche. This vampire’s voice was cultured, well enunciated and clearly educated. Also had enough sass in it to make Iron Bull doubt he had the right target. Only someone newly turned and untouched by the bloody path would still sound so _human_ , but the man he tracked was no fledgling, no innocent.

“On a tight schedule. Plenty of things to do before the sun comes up.” Iron Bull answered with a steady tone, continuing to walk closer. When he entered the light of a street lamp he finally got a good look at the man he’d been tracking, aware that the vampire was examining him the same.

He expected pasty pale, withered and decayed. Instead was greeted with warm caramel skin, like coffee that had just the right amount of cream. The hood of his cloak hid his hair but was pulled back enough to expose glittering silver eyes outlined with kohl, dark lashes thick and full, with a strong slash of a nose between them. Plush lips were hidden under a...truly ridiculous moustache. It was the only part of the creature that screamed _vampire_ , so downright villainous with it’s perfect little waxed curls, but somehow on this creature’s face it instead made him look polished and vain.

The damn thing nearly looked human, especially in the moment where his eyes widened in surprise as he took in Bull, with his harness bearing the Hunter’s crest, the baggy pants and metal boots, silver skin with more scars than not, shoulder width horns and silverite eyepatch. Whatever this ‘Dorian’ had been expecting, it was not what he saw.

Then his surprise was replaced smoothly with an arrogant mask, the vampire offering a sneering smirk that pulled at his lips and exposed sharp canines that belonged in no human mouth. Definitely a vampire, Iron Bull hadn’t fucked up his hunt.

The Venatori prided themselves on separating their beings in every way from their human underlings. As bloody power filled them their mortal forms crumbled under the strain -- the less human they were, the closer to the _perfection_ of the old gods they came, sacrificing everything for darkest power. This Leech was exceptionally skilled at hiding his decay, masquerading as human. It was not something any Venatori Iron Bull had dealt with before had ever bothered with.

Which made this vampire _different._ That was dangerous.

“You’re a hunter.”

It was an accusation and Iron Bull leered at the man as he took a casual step forward, swinging his axe up casually to catch the handle in his other hand, holding it across his hips in a relaxed pose. “Gee, what gave it away?”

“What would a Grey Butcher have with me?” Dorian snarled, tipping his hood back to expose shiny dark hair, carefully groomed as well. Fucking vain little leech, making himself so pretty. Vampires didn’t bother with looks or vanity, they had _power_ in it’s place. Helped that he was throwing around insults like he was hoping to offend Iron Bull. Either he’d never dealt with a skilled hunter before, or he was assuming Iron Bull wasn’t one.

Well that was damn near offensive, after all.

“Why don’t you tell me, _Dorian_?”

The name was definitely right, if the way the vampire’s entire body stiffened had any say about it. Sure of himself now, Iron Bull took a couple of slow steps forward, hands gripping the handle of his axe a little tighter.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed as he watched, that pretty mouth of his pulling into a hard line, like he was terribly displeased with the way the evening was unfolding. “I wasn’t aware we were acquainted. Jilted ex-lover, perhaps?” He said with a tone far more relaxed than his posture. “I apologize if I broke your heart, I always tend to go for big ones when drunk you see.”

Iron Bull laughed, his eye never leaving the vampire as he waited. “I don’t make a habit of tumbling murdering leeches, no matter how clever their pretty mouths may seem.”

The compliment almost distracted Dorian from the accusation, but self-preservation seemed to be high on his priorities. “You’re mistaken, you know.” He said, before he slowly reached behind him. The staff he grabbed only shimmered into existence once he touched it, making Iron Bull mutter a curse. Figures the vampire would be a goddamn _mage._ They didn’t even need a staff to channel their rotten blood magic, the only purpose it served was to empower it further, which meant this was going to be a hell of a fight. “No doubt innocence has no value to a Grey Butcher.”

The conversation was over. Dorian understood what it meant when a hunter accused a vampire of murder, not stupid enough to think he could talk his way out of this. Iron Bull riled the blood inside him and forced out a wave of dampening effect, grinning as it hit the vampire and effectively neutralized his dark power. Leeches that relied on the magic given by their blood were sitting ducks against a trained Grey Hunter. Bull always loved the look of surprise when they realized that all the blood they’d sacrificed for power amounted to nothing in the end.

As Iron Bull lunged for him, Dorian didn’t get that look. It was the first sign that things were about to go very differently than he intended them to.

His charge should have ended with him colliding with the vampire, yet at the last second the creature seemed to just _phase_ through him leaving a deathly chill of cold air through Iron Bull’s body as his legs seemed to freeze into place. He looked down in surprise when ice burst up from the damp cobblestones to freeze solid around his feet, pinning him in place. This wasn’t vampiric magic, there was no singing in his blood or even a blip in the blanket of disruption he’d put out. This wasn’t the kind of power vampires descended into the bloody path to pursue. This was the magic mortals played with, pulled from the fade instead of bought with blood and sacrifice.

The goddamn vampire was using _magic_ like he was nothing more than a fucking mage. Who the hell thought it necessary to play Templar to kill a vampire?

He snarled, managing to find enough movement in his arm to swing down his axe and break some of the ice around his feet. Fucking _cold_ but the chill was fading already, no serious damage done, and as soon as his feet were free he’d…

“Please reconsider your aggressions.” Dorian said calmly, fucking _smugly_ out of range. With a tap of his staff to the ground, what seemed like dozens of colourful mines spread out across the ground around Iron Bull. They glittered and smoked to life across the cobblestone, charging nigh instantly with little space between them. No way Bull could move without setting one off.

“What kind of fucking vampire are you?” Iron Bull shouted, letting temper get the best of him for a moment as he slammed the butt end of his axe against the rest of the ice to free his feet completely -- still unable to go anywhere for fear of the mines.

“I am one of a kind, as they say.” Dorian said with a little bow and a twirl of his staff as he returned it to his back. “I am however a very busy man and you are terribly dull, so be a good boy and don’t get yourself killed? The mines will fade. Eventually.”

Then he turned on his expensive little boot and _ran._ No pride there at all, the vampire was ready to put as much distance between himself and the hunter as possible. Iron Bull hollered out a few insults in qunlat as he fumed, pulling a dagger to throw it at the cloaked figure as he fled, only to have it ping uselessly off a barrier the creature had cast.

Grinding his boot into the cobblestone Iron Bull pulled another dagger from his belt, fuming. No fucking way he was letting the vampire get away again. Years of tracking him wasn’t going to be lost because of some stupid magic that Iron Bull couldn’t block.

Since they existed Vampires worked off of the philosophy that they were above humans, that their gifts were far beyond anything a mere mortal could acquire. They made the blood magic mortals toyed with look like child’s play, in both the sacrifice and the reward. Every previous gift or talent was cast aside when a vampire was born, the fledgling forsaking everything to wash it down with blood and the power it promised instead. Any that resisted the urge were considered weak, no better than mortal prey. In fact they were often cast out, destroyed for squandering their gift. Such vampires were given special leave the treaties to protect them from Hunters, but they rarely lasted their own kind long enough for it to matter.

Blood was needed to fuel the demon they had become, empower it to it’s true potential. The final result were the vampires Iron Bull was used to fighting, ghastly inhuman creatures more monster than man. Their bodies were unable to contain the disgusting evil of their core and corrupting around it. Their minds lost to the need for blood and chaos. Their power nothing but darkness and corruption, something that could not be countered except by the hunters that were eventually _bred_ for that purpose. Grey Butchers. They stood apart from other hunters for their abilities, able to disrupt and purge the bloody magic, to turn it against its user or rip it out entirely.

In Iron Bull’s over-long career he’d never been caught as unprepared as this. Truly one of a kind, a pretty little killer that teased and insulted his enemies. Had the Venatori found a way to twist their power? That was a terrifying thought.

He _couldn’t_ let this creature get away.

Iron Bull looked at the glowing glyphs around him and picked a fire mine to his side. If he detonated it he’d be able to squeeze between the other’s without setting them off -- the magic hadn’t faded yet, Dorian hadn’t gotten far enough away. Iron Bull could still catch him.

The dagger hit the mine and the damn thing exploded so violently that it nearly knocked Iron Bull back, the qunari just barely catching his balance before he landed on the mines behind him. There was _nothing_ left of the dagger, just a crater in the cobblestone and sizzling, charred ash and stone. This vampire’s magic did not fuck around.

Deciding not to think too hard about the death trap he was chasing after he re-sheathed his axe while tiptoeing between two other mines with a new found fear before he was finally free to sprint in the direction Dorian had gone. He had the advantage, he could _sense_ the creature, still keeping him under the dampening effect of his presence so that his target would not be able to teleport or fade away. He also knew the maze of streets better than the ‘vint, so instead of tracing his footsteps he headed straight for one of the few bridges Dorian would have to cross to leave the slums and enter the city proper.

He got to the crossroads first, unable to hide his fearsome grin as he waited with his axe over his shoulder, hearing the vampire’s footsteps echoing towards him.

In Dorian’s defence he didn’t shout in surprise when he rounded the corner to find Iron Bull waiting for him. He did break into a long stream of Tevene cursing, however. The vampire reached into a potion pouch on his hip as he continued running towards Iron Bull, pulling a little blue bottle out and gulping it down and tossing the glass aside. Lyrium. The fucking leech was drinking Lyrium to augment his magic. Vampires benefited from it infinitely more than mortal mages did, without any of the side effects.

Iron Bull snarled and steeled his resolve. This was his duty. He wouldn’t let this one get away.

Dozens of magic missiles burst from Dorian’s chest as he darted to the side, Iron Bull leaping out of the way as they collided with the ground where he had been, the scent of sizzling magic and burning filling Iron Bull’s nose as he used the momentum of his jump to leap at Dorian. The vampire phased into ice again, this time not through Iron Bull but instead away from him, putting distance between them as he ran towards the bridge.

If he crossed the bridge he’d enter the city center. Even this late at night it was crawling with people, Dorian knew the fight would end once they risked civilian casualties. _Fucking vampires._ Reaching for the grappling gun on his belt, Iron Bull aimed and fired, grinning like a madman when it caught the vampire totally off guard, chain and hook tangling around his legs. With a solid yank Iron Bull pulled the fiend’s legs out from under him, bringing him down with a loud curse.

Hauling the chain to pull the vampire towards him as Iron Bull closed in on the thrashing tangle of limbs and cloak. The heavy thud of his footsteps flew the vampire into a panic, the creature burst into ice yet again, trying to drive himself away. Iron Bull hauled at the chain as the force of the magic pulled the vampire away from him, yanking back hard and listening to the angry cursing when the chains held fast, prevented any escape.

He hauled the vampire closer, reaching for his axe as Dorian rolled to try and untangle the chain from his feet, seeing the massive hunter towering over him with obvious intent. In a sudden flurry of motion, the vampire _shifted_ and tried to teleport away. It was the first time he’d used any vampiric power, the first time he’d given the Iron Bull something to work with.

He grabbed the surge of magic that would have whisked Dorian to safety in a chokehold of his own brand of power, the magic in his blood roaring with glee as it struck out at the prone vampire before him, punishing him for the attempted use of his dark gift.

It had a surprisingly potent effect, the creature letting out an agonized cry that sounded painfully human and _terrified_. Against powerful vampires even a stronger counterstrike would barely phase them, but the way the vampire curled in and screamed marked him as weak as a damned fledgling.

It didn’t make any sense. Letting up as he reached the vampire he hauled the man up by his collar and shook him, the hood fell back as the vampire’s hands grappled at Iron Bull’s thick wrist, struggling to free himself. He wasn’t surprised that the man’s grip on him was particularly useless, throwing off as much Hunter’s energy as he was, contact with his skin would have a great weakening effect on a vampire.

“You made a mistake coming here, you and your coven.” Iron Bull snarled into the vampire’s face, oh so _appreciative_ when he saw real fear behind those lovely silver eyes. “I’m going to kill every last one of you, put your pretty little head on a pike as a warning for the rest of your kin. There is no place in the world for you.”

“You won’t _touch_ them, _Butcher_.” Dorian hissed, low and dangerous and so entirely _threatening_ that he reminded Iron Bull that despite his apparent weakness, this _was_ a dangerous vampire he was handling.

He had been enjoying the fear on the man’s face, wasn’t too pleased when it turned into something so focused and angry that Iron Bull could _feel_ the air around him charging with magic. He should have finished the job while the vampire was still stunned by the hit, _stupid_ to threaten and antagonize a creature that was beyond all human thought or emotion no matter how well it faked it.

The sheer force of the blast of magic that hit him was enough to knock him back several feet, Iron Bull managing to roll and bring himself into crouching position quickly, but not fast enough to do anything to stop the vampire from teleporting forward with icy magic the second nimble little feet hit the ground. Iron Bull chased after him, cursing the creature for being as fast as he was -- the bridge was obvious and in sight, the vampire knew where he was going and he had all the motivation in the world to get there faster than the hunter behind him.

In flat out chases like this, Iron Bull wished he was just a little less bulky. He wasn’t made for sprinting and without his grappling hook or any kind of vampiric magic to twist he had no means of closing the distance between them.

They crossed the bridge in a damn blur of motion, the vampire dragging the butt of his staff along the ground enough to cause ice to spring forth behind him, slowing Bull down as he danced around it, letting the vampire get even further ahead.

There was an Inn directly off the bridge, a nice little establishment called Herald’s Rest, with riverside views and a damn good tavern if Iron Bull remembered right. Dorian was bee-lining right for it. When the vampire was all but assured of his victory he spun around and hurled a spell towards Iron Bull. It was a forcewave that hit Iron Bull as strong as a giant’s fist, knocking him right off his feet and leaving him groaning on the cobblestone as he clutched his chest, immediately checking for broken ribs or worse. It didn’t seem to have done any permanent damage, rage simmering inside Iron Bull that this vampire had made absolutely no effort to actually kill him.

“Stand and fight, you fucking coward!” Iron Bull roared from his knees as he watched Dorian reach the Inn door. The vampire turned long enough to blow a _kiss_ in Iron Bull’s direction, the motion all sugary sweetness with an accompanying sneer that could freeze over hell before he stepped into the Inn.

Iron Bull slammed his fist against the cobblestone under him with enough force to split it in two.

Two fucking years and he was beat because the vampire didn’t fight like a goddamn vampire should.

A sleepy town on the border of Tevinter _decimated_ by Venatori, men women and children all sacrificed alike, bled out and left for dead in the center of their village, Venatori crawling all over them like maggots as they collected blood and flesh for the grisly altar they were building out of human body parts.

Iron Bull and four other Grey Butcher’s had lead the attack, they hadn’t slept until every Venatori was dead and accounted for. When Iron Bull had broken into the house the Venatori Elder had infested, he’d seen the shadow of a figure hurtling out the back door, the building stripped of information, details on operations whisked away by a loyal Venatori that had somehow escaped the slaughter.

Sixteen murders in four days in Minrathous, all of them Magister’s who had spoken out against the Venatori. Grey Butcher’s were watched close in the heart of Tevinter, only their Hunter’s crests preventing them from being attacked, but when the Venatori responsible had been caught and gutted a now familiar presence danced on the edge of his consciousness, letting him know that he’d caught the pawn but not the king.

The Venatori cell had known it was exposed, the chaos Iron Bull and his Charger’s created as they decimated their ranks had been a satisfying thrill. They had _plans_ for the Elder, they’d known he was sentient enough to spew information and they had every intentions of squeezing him dry. When they’d found the body it’d been obvious someone else had _squeezed_ , all right. Any information they could have collected died with the remains spattered all over the walls. The only trace left was of a vampire that Iron Bull was growing to hate deeper by the day.

Never with innocent blood on his hands, this creature played an entirely different game. Smart enough to make others do his dirty work he danced around the Hunter’s call for his death, never offering solid incriminating _proof_. Whenever they came close to catching one of his pawns they ended up dead, loose ends tied up nice and tidy. Dorian Fucking Pavus was just as eager to exact gruesome death on his own kind as the innocent.

Now he danced away, dangling his pretty little facade just out of reach like it was a goddamn _game_ , and Iron Bull was through playing.

He wasn’t fucking getting away this time. Drawing himself to his feet Iron Bull shook out dizzying after effects of the blow he’d taken, pulling out the sending crystal from his pouch and putting out a call to his Chargers.

Within twenty minutes they flooded the Herald’s Rest like a bunch of school kids hitting a candy shop. The quiet little tavern exploded to life as his Charger’s made themselves at home, chatting up the bar maids, ordering drinks and booking their rooms. They knew why they were here, but it was an easy assignment compared to what they were used to -- crowd up a tavern and make sure a certain ‘vint didn’t make it out unaccompanied. Until then, they were free to do as they pleased.

Well, as long as they didn’t get kicked out for it. Ground rules were important.

Leaning on the counter Iron Bull tipped a horn to the Innkeeper, grinning when the little lady blushed after looking him up and down. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing _you_ again so soon.” She practically purred, leaning up on the counter to give the Iron Bull a friendly smile. “My girls just barely stopped talking about your last visit.”

Iron Bull grinned, compartmentalizing _hunter_ and _rage_ and putting on something comfortable instead. People were why he did what he did. In the end, he was a people person, he enjoyed spending time with them, getting to know those around him and building up rapport. “You still making those honey twist pastries? Wild dogs couldn’t keep me away.”

She chuckled while sliding a room key across the counter for him, the shrewd woman already knowing Krem would be taking care of arranging rooms and payment for the others later. “I’ll send you some up fresh in the morning, Darling. Was there anything else you wanted?”

He was a Hunter, she knew that. Anybody who saw the crest on the harness across his chest knew it. He _could_ tell her that there was a vampire in the Inn that he needed to kill, she would no doubt hand the key over to him and clear out the building of any civilians. He had that right, that provision as a Hunter. However, to do so he would need to have _proof,_ enough to declare Dorian a mark and officially call down the Hunt. Had things gone as planned tonight, he wouldn’t have need to worry, or Dorian’s actions would have condemned himself, nulling the protection of the treaties.

Instead he’d played his hand perfect, hadn’t done a damn thing that Iron Bull could use against him. It’d be a waiting game until they cornered him, but he’d waited years to get _this_ close. He could be patient, wait until the creature finally made the mistake that would cost him his pretty little head.

“Yeah, got an old friend who was supposed to meet me here. About this tall,” Iron Bull motioned to below his shoulder, “Real pretty, silly moustache.”

“Oh! He actually just checked in. He’s in room five, Darling. Though he looked pretty worn out, might already be asleep.”

“I’ll knock, see if he’s up. Can you send out a round of your best ale for my boys? They’ve had a long week.”

“On it, Sweetheart. See you around.” She gave him a little wink that promised some fun later should he care to pursue and he offered her a knowing smirk before he headed up the stairs to room five.

Shockingly enough there was no answer to his knock, and when he twisted the door handle he found it thoroughly locked. Better yet, when he pressed his palm to the wood he could _feel_ the magic burning on the other side, wards obviously set up to deal with intruders. Probably more of those mines, and he sure as shit didn’t want to know what they could do to a man if they could obliterate a silverite dagger.

So he went downstairs, accepted the tankard offered by one of his men and settled himself comfortably at the head of their table. As Krem and Stitches led his group in a rowdy song that had the bar maids giggling, Iron Bull figured this wouldn’t even be so bad.

He was a patient man. He could wait.


	2. An Evening Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being pinned down does not suit Dorian whatsoever, but the Grey Butcher holing him up in this makeshift prison is making it rather clear he's not here by accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the slowest writer ever and I know better than to try and offer up excuses at this point. Hope you enjoy the next chapter, despite the wait!

The tavern was noisy enough that even the thick wooden floor between it and the guest rooms could not muffle the commotion. Terrible singing, yelling and shouting between people who seemed _far_ too comfortable being loud and obnoxious, all of it enough to drive Dorian to his last nerve in record time.

He’d spent most of the night pacing and cursing the very existence of the Grey Butcher downstairs. When the sun had rose he’d briefly checked the window to see that the person posted watch on the street outside was still there. He’d certainly catch them off guard if he went outside during the day, but he was in no condition to escape an encounter with the sun unscathed.

True, age did desensitize one to the sun, but blood was what really made the difference. Without a great deal of that on hand he wasn’t going to get far until night fell. Which left him little alternative than to deal with the Butcher and his band of scoundrels. The amount of bad luck involved in capturing the attention of one of _those_ beasts was spectacular. Butchers had practically been culled into extinction by their own creators when they’d been proven dangerously flawed. Their minds eventually snapped under the weight of the Hunt, driving them to a murderous corruption that forced the Council’s hand.

Apparently they’d missed one. Probably because his targets were still _vampires._ The Council only destroyed their best tools when they turned on mortals, unable to tell innocent humans from their intended targets. No one cared if a vampire was killed without proper cause, though _innocent_ vampires were in admittedly short supply. The rules that had governed vampires and their hunters eons ago were all but forgotten thanks to the Venatori and their Ritual Blood.

Due to the grip they had on Tevinter and the vampire population, Dorian couldn’t imagine how long it’d been since one of his kind had attempted to _negotiate_ with a Hunter. Of course, after being very nearly dragged under the Butcher’s axe he had little intention of attempting it himself.

He couldn’t afford to be holed up in his room like a mouse cornered by a cat. There was too much at stake to allow himself to be afraid.

So he marched down the stairs to the tavern with little plan but plenty of determination. He’d prove to this hunter that he was no fledgling to be bullied about. In this building he had protection, it didn’t matter how weak he was, for it would take very little for him to hurt the mortals around him, the creatures a Hunter was sworn to protect. The Butcher wouldn’t dare attack Dorian knowing that the lives of the mortals around him were at stake.

With that as his bargaining chip, Dorian was far from helpless. Hopefully the Butcher would identify this as the stalemate it was and not push Dorian’s hand. He’d hate to have to fight for his life this early in the evening.

It was easy to tell which of the mortals in the tavern belonged to the Butcher as he walked down the stairs from his room. Eyes were immediately upon him, but many of them did not pass over after initial curiosity was abated. They were focused, and if looks could kill Dorian was fairly certain he’d be dead a dozen times over. Seems like the Butcher had a great many friends. _Lovely._

He walked over to the bar with an unconcerned manner, calmly settling on one of the stools. He had a presence that was difficult to ignore, he oozed confidence and charisma which unfortunately made it incredibly difficult to blend into a crowd in situations like this.

He had every right to be here, no one had any right to attack or confront him for coming down to the bar. Yet he was hardly surprised when he noticed the Grey Butcher get up from the head of the corner table. He casually grabbed that grotesque axe as he moved, hauling it with him like it weighed nothing as he headed towards the counter.

Dorian made a show of focusing on the bar maid who came to greet him instead of the Butcher approaching him. He ordered his wine, _‘That’s the best vintage you have? Really? Well, I suppose it will have to do.’_ , all the while he most certainly did _not_ watch the Butcher from the corner of his eye, or the second man with the Hunter’s crest emblazoned on his chestpiece that trailed after his captain. Also armed to the teeth.

Dorian reminded himself that he’d done absolutely nothing wrong and they had no reason to harass them when they plunked down on either side of him. He couldn’t help the protesting snarl that was out of his mouth before he could reign in it, practically squished between the two of them they were sitting so goddamn close.

The first thing he noticed was that the Butcher’s pants were _atrocious._ “Which circus did you rob to find those trousers?” He huffed as he crossed his legs, attempting to take up as little space as possible so as not to be pressed neatly against either hunter.  

The Butcher gave him a sneer that was quite honestly one of the most terrifying expressions he’d ever had directed at him, short of maybe his mother on one of his less obedient days. Fortunately any venom about to be spewed in his general direction was interrupted by the arrival of the Barmaid.

The bottle of wine she produced was not particularly inspiring with its garishly rustic label. Dorian wasn’t even sure if there was a vineyard this far south capable of producing _actual_ grapes.

“Here you are, Darlin’.” The girl said with a pleasant smile, a rather refreshing change from the scathing looks shot at him from either side. Dorian slid an extra couple of sovereigns across with his payment, catching the way her eyes lit up when she saw them. She pulled the cork out of the bottle with some effort and poured him wine in a glass that was really more like a very quaint goblet.

When he took the glass from her with a charming thank you and a smile, he felt the Butcher beside him relax slightly, apparently satisfied that Dorian wasn’t going to lunge forward and rip out her throat.

As compelling as the warm pulses of blood all around him were, the presence of a Butcher overwhelming his senses put rather a damper on his appetite. The bit of synthetic substitute he’d had before coming down took the edge off but very little else. More worrisome was that he was very nearly out. Any hope of resupplying hinged on him getting out of this stupid inn and to his contacts. Hopefully without bringing a trail of hunters onto them that would get everyone killed.

The side-eye glare he was getting was scathing enough to peel paint off a brick wall so Dorian paid his attention to his wine instead, swirling it in the crude glass and sniffing it daintily, attempting to trick his taste buds into thinking that it wasn’t dog sweat he was about to ingest. Lucky that Ferelden’s even knew what wine was, he supposed.

When he took a delicate little sip, schooling his expression to not wince at the unfortunate flavour, the two hunters appeared ready to break the oppressive silence. “Wow Chief, you’re right. He really does look human, no extra limbs or anything.” Dorian scrunched his nose at the thought, though it was rather common for a deteriorated Venatori mind to think more arms and hands an advantage so he couldn’t exactly fault the observation. What he could fault was that the man had a clear Tevene accent, which was all kinds of interesting.

“Vain as shit, right?” The Butcher sneered and Dorian’s boundless control was the only thing that prevented him from reacting.

“All dressed up and nowhere to be, _darlin_ ’?” The human hunter sneered, forcing a Ferelden accent on the last word that was a poor mimicry of the barmaid’s previous kindness.

“If you’re trying to blend in with us mortals you’re doing a real shit job, you know.”

Dorian plucked up the bottle of wine to examine the label, knowing full well if he responded to such bait he’d do nothing better than incriminate himself. Even admitting to being a vampire could be enough to get him thrown out of the inn. If he did, he’d have nowhere to go with a whole lot of hunters eager to get their grubby little hands on him. What a terrible situation he’d landed himself in this time. “You know, this says it’s an Orlesian Bordeaux, but there’s a distinct aftertaste of Ferelden dirt to it.” He said conversationally, so very impressed with how bored and disinterested he managed to sound. “Perhaps the glass?” He wondered aloud as he lifted it to examine closer, quite as if it was the biggest thing he had to be concerned over.

“Maybe the shit wine will convince you to go back to Tevinter.” The auburn haired human sneered, ‘accidentally’ elbowing Dorian as he leaned back on his stool.

“Oh, but then I’d miss out on all this lovely company. Being snuggled up to by rogue Hunters has been a unique Ferelden experience.” Dorian’s sarcasm, forever present, was apparently unwilling to let something like concern for his own life silence it.

“Feel free to go somewhere else if you’re uncomfortable.” The Butcher practically growled, leaning further into Dorian’s personal space with a flare of power that raised the hair on the back of Dorian’s neck and left his skin crawling with the need to flee. It wasn’t often a vampire experienced the instinctive need to escape a predator, but this was certainly one of those times. Butcher’s were terrifying abominations, and for once Dorian was exceptionally glad for the weak vampiric power that coursed through him, any stronger and he might not have been able to resist the need to lash out and defend himself.

He managed to scowl, ignoring the sinking cold feeling in his gut. “I believe I have every right to be here. I’m a paying customer, after all. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Course you haven’t, Dorian.”

The way his name sounded coming off the Butcher’s tongue sent a prickling feeling of dread down Dorian’s spine. All at once he was reminded that the Butcher knew his first name, that he hadn’t happened upon him by chance. Dorian had been his intended target all along -- he was being _hunted._ He managed to keep panic from showing but the Butcher grinned at him, all menacing teeth and a predatory sneer that left no doubt that he’d picked whatever reaction he’d hoped to find from Dorian’s expression.

“Rather rude, addressing me so personally when I haven’t the faintest who you are.” He snapped, taking a long drink from his wine then, glaring over the top of the glass and acknowledging himself well and truly _baited_ at this point.

The human behind him got off his stool to lean against the counter on the other side of the Butcher, clearly more interested in watching Dorian’s face for reaction than he was crowding the vampire. Not that it mattered, Dorian was quite sure that the lithe little elven woman who slid into the empty stool almost immediately was no innocent civilian, either. “Well, we know who _you_ are, and that’s really all you have to worry your pretty little face about.” The human drawled as he tipped back his glass and downed the contents. Dorian matched his glare, deciding he quite hated a the human as much as the Butcher, Tevene accent and all.

“I’d actually rather doubt you know anything about me, _Soporati._ ” There was some satisfaction in how the Hunter flinched at the word, but Dorian’s barbed tongue earned him nothing more than to agitate the Butcher into growling as he leaned in to loom over Dorian.

“Dorian Pavus, only surviving member of House Pavus.” Dorian scowled, forcing himself to neither snap a response or cower away. _Fuck._ The Butcher knew _exactly_ who he was. Worse, the creature continued. “Sired by Gereon Alexius, a vampire of very little power or import, known for his continued dealings with the Magisterium of Tevinter, where he played at political reform for centuries.” Dorian set down his wine glass a little harshly, his fingers in a white knuckle grip around it as he grew more and more tense. He stuck out his chin in a prideful manner, refusing to show his fear. He’d _die_ before he let this Hunter think he had the upper hand. _How did he know?_ “He gave up his seat on the Magisterium suddenly, shortly after his first _childe_ , your blood-brother disappeared. He dropped out of human memory swiftly, until he reappeared decades later on the Council’s radar, a powerful new Elder of the Venatori. Sounding familiar?”

 _How the hell does he know?!_ Dorian’s mind helpfully repeated, spiraling into chaos as he forced calm, trying to understand how a void-blasted _Grey Butcher_ knew so much about him. This was so exceptionally worse than he had ever considered. If he escaped the Inn, how long would it be before this monster tracked him down again? How much danger would he be putting his Coven into if they were caught communicating with him? Dorian had no choice, he had to kill him -- but here in this tavern, surrounded by the Butcher’s allies and mortals, there was no way out, no advantage. Besides, if he did manage to kill these Hunters, how long would it be before the entire Council came after him?

Alexius wasn’t something just anybody knew about. Which meant somewhere along the lines, Dorian had been compromised. There was no way to pretend like the Butcher wasn’t right, so he settled for a sneer instead. “A rather unfortunate series of events that has little to do with me. I thought that’s who we were discussing, was it not? Me?”

“No doubt your favorite topic.” The human drawled. Dorian flashed a very insincere smile in his direction. Snark was of course a popular Tevinter past time, Dorian well prepared to rise to the occasion. His scathing retort died on his lips when the Butcher leaned in, resting an elbow on the bar top as he sneered down at Dorian.

Grey Butchers were definitely _not_ a popular Tevinter pastime.

“The story gets interesting when this Alexius started sending out letters to a certain Dorian Pavus, imploring him to join the Venatori.”

Dorian’s blood slowed to an icey crawl in his veins, his tongue suddenly rather unwilling to move in his mouth. ‘ _It’s not possible. Even I couldn’t be_ **_this_ ** _unlucky.’_

“The letters continued for years. In that time, Dorian Pavus, _you_ , abandoned your seat on the Magisterium and disappeared from mortal attention. After some time had passed, you sent a letter of your own.You requested his location so you could return to his side under the Venatori’s banner.”

It was like all the air had been sucked right out of Dorian’s lungs. It all clicked into horrifying place, the world crashing down around his ears as he realized just how bad a corner he’d been backed into.

He’d spent years trying to uncover what the Venatori cell Alexius had ran was up to, suffered the agony of knowing the research that he’d previously done with his Sire was being turned into a terrifying weapon. Once he’d gathered everything he could he’d leaked the information -- not to anyone in particular, simply allowed it to fall into hands that would undoubtedly lead back to the Council.

Just another Venatori cell that needed to be dealt with. It’d cut Dorian deep, but not as powerful a hurt as killing Alexius himself would have been.

“Those letters were intercepted by the Council.” He said, the dazed sort of resignation clear in his voice, his clever mask of indifference faltering around the shock of the news, the brutality of how it was being thrown in his face.

“Aye.” The Butcher sneered, Dorian keenly aware of how vicious the canines the creature possessed were, not near as sharp or fine as a vampires might be, but big and fierce, betraying that this creature was truly the abomination of mortal and monster from the stories. Dorian was off balance, and the beast wasted no time twisting the knife. “And it was I who took his his head. Too bad you were so late getting there, I love warm family reunions. Would have saved me a lot of trouble, gutting you then.”

Dorian flinched, unable to hide the sickening twist of pain searing through him. Why did it have to be a Butcher? Above all Dorian had hoped his Sire’s death would have been quick, clean and professional with some amount of dignity.

It was the least Dorian owed to the man who had practically raised him with warmth and kindness, a proud father and loving husband before grief had twisted him beyond recognition. His stomach churned as he thought of Alexius being pulled towards that gruesome axe, destroyed by a creature with none of the respectful focus hunters were known for.

As an added bonus, the Hunter had every reason to believe Dorian Venatori, in those letters he’d as much as said so, even if it had been a simple ruse to get his Sire’s location to bring an end to the dangerous path Alexius’s madness had taken him. He’d made himself a target for a Hunt, and was now endangering everyone associated with him. Like they weren’t in _enough_ danger already.

“Andraste’s ass, look at that Chief. He _is_ good.”

Dorian sneered as the human hunter leaned casually on the Butcher’s shoulder, peering at Dorian as if he was nothing more than a fascinating animal on display.

“Just how do you manage that?” The Butcher asked in a voice equally hostile but perhaps a little curious.

Dorian stood, unwilling to spend a moment longer sitting there, forcing himself to pretend like everything was fine. He had tried to convince himself not to show fear or weakness, but now he was far too raw to hide his discomfort and how badly he wanted to run away.

“Manage what, exactly?” He snapped, and for the first time he sounded like what he was, a vampire confronted by two hunters, a predator backed into a corner and ready to fight his way out.

It didn’t seem to phase the Butcher even the slightest. “Mimicking human emotion. You’re good at it. One might almost think your ilk capable of feelings.”

Dorian snarled, snatching up his wine, controlling his temper enough to not break the bottle with his white knuckle grip. When he took a step back he noticed both hunters shifting as if to grab him, but Dorian put enough space between them to make it clear he would not be touched without a _fight._

“I tore out a man’s eyes and wore them as my own, so I could see the world through mortal eyes.” Dorian sneered, venomous and hateful, wanting nothing more than to make these monsters _suffer._ How was he supposed to stay cool and reserved, how was he supposed to avoid being baited when they would use the murder of his own _Sire_ against him. Someone had to point out that these creatures were no better than the vampire’s they hunted.

“When I was done, I smashed open his skull to see just how his mind worked. Very enlightening process, I suggest you try it yourselves.” He snapped his mouth shut and stalked away, wary of turning his back to either hunter, expecting an attack though he made it up the stairs without incident. Even these bastards were too smart to attack him without provocation in public.

For now this would be the only safe place for him. There was no doubt in his mind now why the Hunters were here and exactly what they wanted. He would not leave this building without a fight.

He’d need to be prepared.

Downstairs, the human gave the Butcher a rather concerned look. “You know Chief, I don’t think he was lying.”

The Iron Bull snorted, shaking his head as he scooped his drink off the bar and tipped it back before standing. “Course he was, Krem. Vampires have tried that shit a hundred times before, doesn’t work.”

Krem scoffed before picking up his own drink, trailing behind Bull as they returned to the Charger’s table.

\---

When Dorian looked out the barred window overlooking the river he was unsurprised to see a cloaked figure sitting on a bench facing the street. He recognized the flash of golden hair in the moonlight as one of the Hunters, no doubt posted to prevent Dorian from escaping out the window.

Not like he could fit through the bars without dissipating, which would be impossible even if he did have enough blood to use such powers, what with the Butcher’s aura constantly crawling through the whole inn, suppressing any use of dark power.

Dorian could just consider himself lucky that his own aura was dim, far too weak to properly react with the Hunter’s power. Only an unpleasant feeling of uneasiness instead of the actual pain he was well aware a Butcher could inflict.

He restlessly stalked his room, double checking his supplies for what felt like the hundredth time. Only a couple of lyrium potions left, glowing their gentle blue where they were tucked in his pack. The last vial of blood substitute now quite empty, though if he got desperate enough he supposed he could lick out the glass.

Wasn’t that just pathetic? Somehow even finding some rat to suck dry would be better than lapping at the residue of tar like substance that only mimicked blood in effect, certainly not taste or texture.

Of course, the Inn they were in was surprisingly clean, which meant rats were in an unfortunately slim supply.

So he grabbed up the bottle of wine instead, nursing it to fill his belly with _something_ as he glared out the window and thought hateful thoughts about the Hunters downstairs. He’ll wait until tomorrow night. Surely if he made no effort to move they’d get bored, just how long were they willing to stay cooped up after all?

It certainly wasn’t entertaining for him. Vampires didn’t need to sleep, which made lying there with one’s thoughts rather dull. When those thoughts were as chaotic and undoubtedly awful as Dorian’s it was downright painful.  

He forced himself to recall happier times, sometime around daybreak falling into a fitful sort of slumber that was neither restful or particularly enjoyable.

He came to drooling into the rough fabric of his pillow, an empty wine bottle still nestled in his slack grip and the relieving feeling of night settling upon the outside world.

There was something else relieving too, though it took him a few long minutes to realize that it was the absence of the Butcher’s oppressive aura. Suddenly Dorian was free to use his dark magic, overwhelmed suddenly by the great need to grab one of the mortals downstairs and rather viciously borrow their blood to take him far away from here.

As dry as Dorian was, however, it’d take far more than one mortal’s blood to grant him enough power to take himself out of harm’s way.

Besides. He couldn’t just _leave_ , he’d come to this mud-covered shithole for a reason and he wouldn’t be driven away.

There was steely determination as he prepared for travel, taking a moment to suck out the last few drops of blood substitute and lick out the little vial, knowing full well he’d need every drop more than his fickle pride at this point.

He was aware how quiet the Tavern was as he walked downstairs, staff hidden at his back and pack at his side as he glanced around while approaching the Innkeepers desk. He passed gold across the table with a grim sort of smile, knowing full well the mortal woman behind the desk would probably be quick to report his departure to the Butcher the second the man returned.

But with no oppressive aura in the area, there was a chance Dorian could escape before he did. So he appreciated it for the boon it was and forced himself not to consider that the Hunters could have moved on to other prey in the area --namely his hidden contacts.

Okay, maybe he was considering it a little. The panicked worry distracting him as he burst out of the front doors of the Herald’s Rest.

Perhaps that’s why he was as surprised as the two Hunters sitting outside the doors when they jumped to face him. Left behind to watch the doors, were they shocked he dared leave his impromptu prison?

It was the human hunter from the night previous, auburn hair so easily recognizable as the man grabbed the handle of the massive maul strapped to his back, clearly ready for a confrontation. Beside him was the lithe little elven woman, pale blond hair flashing with moonlight as she plucked up her staff.

 _Staff._ Of fucking course the Hunters would have a mage. Dorian was faster than either of them, and while he was blood deprived and exhausted such things had no ill effects on his magical capabilities.

It was clear that he’d had enough of being locked up, and they had no intentions of letting him leave. All at once the stillness broke as they lunged towards Dorian.

He threw magic in both of their faces with a quick motion, not needing to channel his mana through a staff to produce a spell. Both bodies crumpled to the wooden porch as the sleep spell took effect, Dorian spending no extra effort pushing them into a nightmare, just buying himself some time so that he could get away.

He kicked away their weapons before levitating both the heavy maul and the staff, tossing them up onto the roof with a flick of his wrist, hoping that would at least keep them disarmed should they awake to chase after him.

WIth that he twisted up what little bit of power he had and willed himself _away._ He’d seen Venatori elders fueled by altar’s of ritual blood teleport an entire coven from one city to another, but Dorian was not so capable. He’d never been under the influence of the twisted power of Ritual Blood, he was weak and hungry, hadn’t fed on anything of any value in what felt like centuries. He let out a curse when he realized his teleport had only taken him perhaps a block away.

Still, it was faster than running and harder to track, so Dorian pushed down the nausea churning his stomach and grabbed his power for another teleport, disgusted with just how much effort it took to channel a weak spell when it was fueled by something other than mana.

If he could just get far enough _away._ His contacts would have substitute, lyrium, supplies and information. They’d have enough that the three of them could hide out for a few days until this ... _hunt_ blew over and they could focus on what they’d come to Denerim to do.

He staggered out of a teleport and leaned against a lamp post long enough to shake the dizziness out of his head. His rest was cut short when he heard a rush of footsteps in the distance, jerking his head up in time to see a couple of hunters racing towards him, weapons drawn.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ He threw up a couple of mines in the alley they were hurtling down to stop them, spending no time to see the result or catch his breath before hurling himself into another teleport.

The tavern was empty because all of the Hunters were scattered all through the streets waiting for him. They’d set a trap and he’d walked right into it, but he could break through and escape, he was sure of it.

He was dizzy and lightheaded as he forced one teleport after another, blurring past another three blocks, biting back bile and gritting his teeth in determination.

He was travelling through his fourth teleport when the world was pulled out from under him. Like travelling through thick fog at great speeds only to be wrenched out of it and cast into what felt like a lake of fire. He tried to keep his feet for the landing but he crashed to his knees. _Grey Butcher_. That oppressive aura settled over him like a wretched thorny blanket, strangling him and choking off his means of escape.

The pathetic amount of power used by the Butcher to strangle him had no long lasting effects, thankfully. He forced himself to his feet, ditching the ease of teleportation to simply trust the strength in his legs and the desperate need to flee.

It was far too late for him to realize that he had no idea where the Butcher was, just that he was close. The cursed sending crystals the hunters had were no doubt aiding in their ability to pin down his location, but he refused to stop running. Maybe if he could find a horse somewhere and steal it? If he could get one of the wretched beasts to do anything but snap and bite at him.

All the plans and possibilities of how he could facilitate his escape completely vanished when the Grey Butcher rounded the corner in front of Dorian, his stride so cocky he practically swaggered as he came to a stop in the middle of the street.

Dorian could duck into an alley, but he could already hear voices and footsteps bouncing off buildings behind him, the rest of the hunter’s closing in around him.

He was surprised by the absolute rage that climbed into his throat as he came to a stop, glaring daggers at the creature. Self preservation flew out the window, replaced entirely with raw anger.

Without real sense he found himself stalking towards the Butcher, purpose in his stride, spine ramrod straight as he scowled. The Butcher hadn’t drawn his axe, was merely resting his hand on the hilt of the sword at his side, something Dorian took as a good sign.

“You have no gods be damned right to do this.” He snarled, his voice raised and filthy mad as he got into hearing range. “You have no authority without some kind of proof that I’ve caused mortal’s harm.” He came to a stop out of the Butcher’s reach, practically vibrating with tension and ready to burst into magic the second the creature lunged for him. The Butcher didn’t, instead he looked down at Dorian as if he had just deigned to notice his presence.

“Going somewhere, Pretty?” He asked, so unbearably calm Dorian wanted to punch him in his smug fucking face.

“I am. And you have no right to try and stop me.” He growled, the rational part of his brain watching his bravery with some measure of amazement. He didn’t even reach this brute’s shoulder, knew full well how much the Butcher wanted him dead but couldn’t find it in himself to stand down any longer.

“Alright.” The Butcher agreed, making Dorian pause his tirade with a stunned sort of silence. “I’ll go with you, then.” Dorian seethed while he continued. “It’s dangerous out here, you know. All kinds of nasty things crawl out of the woodwork at night.”

The Butcher was grinning so fiercely that Dorian was sure it was just an angry baring of teeth instead of any sort of amusement. _Of course_ he’d offer to let Dorian go freely, hoping to be led to Dorian’s coven mates instead.

He ground his teeth, still just as determined to stand his ground. “I’ll report you to the Council. Another of their precious abominations gone feral, I hear the Qun is quite handy at putting down it’s rogue Butchers.”

He wasn’t expecting the Hunter to throw his head back and laugh, a booming sound that was filled with honest amusement. Clearly he wasn’t the least bit bothered by the threat. “Who's going to report me when I’ve made you into a bloody smear across the ground? Your little Coven going to go running to the Council? You think they’ll listen?” With each question he asked, Iron Bull stalked closer to Dorian, looming into his personal space until he towered over the vampire, sharp canines on display as he leered at Dorian, openly mocking. “You think you have any voice that the council gives three shits about?”

Every instinct in Dorian’s body told him to flee, causing a brief struggle with his legs to make sure that he held his ground. He had to crane his neck to keep meeting the creature’s eye, but he was not going to give the man the satisfaction of intimidating Dorian into dropping his gaze. “You know nothing about my Coven.” He said quietly instead, voice low and as threatening as he could make it, deciding he’d much rather go for a subtle approach seeing as the ‘big terrifying monster’ thing was better served by the Butcher than an average sized vampire as good looking as he.

“I know you’re going to them right now. Why don’t you take me along? I’d love to meet them.” The qunari grinned, feral and downright _evil._ Daring Dorian to say no, daring him to say yes. Dorian hasn’t missed the fact that the qunari’s hand had fallen back to hover over the handle of his axe, which meant the creature was just itching for Dorian to do something, _anything._

There was no chance Dorian was going to lead the qunari to his coven. The creature was careful, making sure Dorian initiated some kind of combat, waiting for him to attack first so he could use it to prove a proper Hunt on Dorian. There was nowhere to hide -- if he killed the Butcher, his hunters would scour the area looking for him -- even if Dorian got away, his Coven mates would likely be found. He’d be making them into targets, dragging them into this mess too. They had enough predators already, their own kind too big of a threat to start adding hunters to that list too.

No. He’d have to resist the urge to attack and flee, for the sake of his Coven. The two he planned on meeting, they were skilled, they’d be able to stay hidden for a few more days. The contingency plan was simple, wait one week before moving on. Yet Dorian knew how stubborn they were, Maker help him they would probably come looking for him before they’d leave all together.

If he couldn’t find a better opportunity, he’d have to make one.

Dorian let out a filthy curse in Tevene before throwing his hands up into the air, venting some of his frustration as he ground his boot into the cobblestone. “I’m going back to the Inn.” He announced. He managed to take some smug satisfaction out of the flash of disappointment across the Butcher’s face.

The qunari’s hand fell from the handle of his axe as he recovered, fixing his expression into a fierce little grin instead. “Let me escort you back then, Pretty.” He said with a challenging sneer, taking a step towards Dorian. “To make sure you get back there _safe_.”

Then the Butcher had the audacity to offer his arm to Dorian as if he was some kind of gentleman, earning nothing but a scowl and muttered obscenities as Dorian brushed past him. “Asshole.” Dorian muttered, earning himself a laugh from the qunari.

The rude refusal did nothing to deter the Butcher from following at his side, staying well within arm’s reach at all times as they began their trek back to the Inn.

The slowness of Dorian’s pace was less petulant dragging of his heels and more total exhaustion overcoming him. The running, the pounding of adrenaline through him and the total depletion of his reserves had left him with very little balance or strength to keep walking. The Butcher said nothing, apparently quite content to match Dorian’s speed, staying close enough that when Dorian swayed slightly their arms brushed.

 _Predator_ danced across Dorian’s nerves every time they touched, a continual reminder of his hunger and the weakness caused by it.

Perhaps that was why when a large rat scurried into the mouth of an alley next to them Dorian threw magic at it before he’d had a chance to even consider his actions beyond ‘acquire blood.’  

Had he thought about it he would have remembered the high strung Grey Butcher at his side, the man who was determined to kill him for any provocation. As it was he was rather brutally reminded when within the next moment his feet left the ground and he found himself slammed into the rough building wall next to him, a hand large enough to cover his face pinning his throat.

He heard the draw of a blade and all within the time it took to blink it looked like he would be brought to a swift, violent end. He managed to claw his hands into the wrist pinning him and scramble his feet under him, toes just able to touch the ground.

The wild look in the Butcher’s eye and the hesitation to move the blade at Dorian’s throat told him that the hunter was just as surprised by the sudden violence as Dorian. Two creatures playing entirely off instinct, neither of them thinking beyond their natural inclination to hunt. Both left playing catch up when their less primal sides regained control.

Dorian was the first to speak, lack of air and the threat of immediate death not enough to temper the flare of indignant anger that sparked inside him. “Really? Was the rat a friend of yours?” He rasped, the venomous bite to his words undermined by the wheeze from his abused throat.

The wild glint of red in the Butcher’s eyes disappeared, replaced by something equally indignant and annoyed. Well, it was a start. The hand slackened its grip slightly, letting Dorian ease off the tips of his toes to his feet, the thin blade of the dagger the creature had drawn returning to it’s sheath. Not that the claws on the hand still loose at his throat weren’t enough of a threat to stop Dorian from moving.

Didn’t prevent him from giving the Butcher a piece of his mind. “Perhaps it’s a relative of yours? Distant cousin? I think I can see the resemblance.” Dorian sneered, if nothing else rather amused by the way the Butcher’s expression morphed into exasperated annoyance. “Care to put me down, then? I assure you I am not near drunk enough to consider this foreplay.”

He took a step back and released Dorian entirely, still warily watching him with a strange sort of sneer, but the immediate threat of violence had passed. Dorian rather felt like he was owed an apology, but the tense wariness the Butcher still regarded him with made it clear such niceties were nothing more than a distant dream. Really, he was rather lucky to still be alive at all. At least the Butcher had enough humanity left to _think_ before he killed.

Be thankful for small blessings, or some such.

“Prissy ‘vint scared of rats?” The Butcher said instead, quirking a brow at Dorian. The Vampire let out a bark of a laugh before he walked towards the pitiful creature, casting the Butcher a mistrustful look before he grabbed the thing by it’s awful tail.

It wasn’t diseased looking, another small miracle in this Ferelden backwater. The force of Dorian’s spell had been enough to slam it into the wall and break the things neck, which meant it wasn’t overly damaged and perfectly salvageable.

He would have preferred not to do this with an audience, handling vermin was never something one wanted to do in polite company, _eating_ said vermin was particularly unheard of. At this point however, anger won out over politeness. This Butcher was the source of all of Dorian’s problems, if he was a little grossed out watching a rat be bled, then that was just a perk.

“The fuck are you--” The Butcher started saying as Dorian drew a small, sharp knife from his pack. The answer seemed to be rather obvious as Dorian fished out one of the empty substitute vials from and pulled the cork with his teeth, fumbling a bit to draw the knife across the dead rat’s throat and then catch the stream of blood with the vial.

Stunned silence was the best way to describe the qunari as the creature stared at him, mouth hanging open like he was witnessing the coming of Andraste. When Dorian flipped the rat up long enough to cork the first vial and grab a second, the Butcher finally seemed to find his words.

“You’re going to _eat_ it?”

Dorian rolled his eyes as he began to fill the second vial, figuring he’d get this one filled and enough of a third to have a decent drink. Humiliation stung some prideful part of him, being watched with horror by his newest nemesis, but he had to eat, and this might be the only opportunity he’d get. “You can rather keep your opinions to yourself, I think.” Dorian snapped as he watched blood flow. It wasn’t particularly appetizing, it was hard to get excited over something that came out of a rat. It was however nourishment, which was all one could really ask for in these circumstances. “Blood is blood, afterall.”

“But...a _rat_?” The Butcher sounded more confused than scathing, not pointing the words into an insult but instead bordering on bewildered. Not that Dorian could blame him, as of late it seemed his Kin only dined on the blood of babes, perhaps mixed with the potent Ritual Blood that they sipped from the skulls of their enemies. Dorian was going to make some smart remark about that, but decided to ignore the Butcher instead as he squeezed the rat a bit to coax some extra blood for his third vial.

When the Qunari stalked towards him, apparently intent on invading Dorian’s personal space and investigate a little closer, the Vampire sneered. “I’ve seen the slop the Ferelden's here call stew. You think that’s somehow more palatable?” He sniffed as he finished his work, tossing away the rat and promptly rubbing his hand on his pants, making a mental reminder to scrub with the strongest soap he could find at the first available opportunity.

The Butcher continued to stare as Dorian sniffed at the half full vial, resigning himself to his fate and preparing himself for the _experience._ What had started as shame was now bordering on annoyance, making Dorian sneer at the giant of a man as he fiddled with the vial. “Oh, did you want some?” He snapped, glancing towards the drained little corpse of the rat. “Where are my manners? You wanted to take it back to your cave? Roast it over an open fire?”

 _That_ snapped the qunari out of his staring, earning a glare that was entirely preferable before he braced himself and tipped back the blood. Like ash on his tongue, flavorless and bitter, it caught in his throat and he struggled not to choke as he swallowed. It settled in his stomach, easing the pang and almost immediately filling his limbs with life again, head clearing and some of the fog lifting off of him. The enchantment in the vials would keep the blood fresh, he’d have _something_ to subsist off of for the next few days. Worth the taste then, worth the humiliation. He straightened his back and gave the qunari a distasteful, haughty look, like he’d watched the man do something vile instead of the other way around.

Surely the Butcher’s _existence_ was vile enough, yes?

What he got in exchange was an expression he couldn’t identify, the Butcher was looking at him like he’d grown another head and was morbidly curious about the cause.

“ _What?_ ” He snapped, baring his teeth a little, proud indignance far easier to come by when he wasn’t starving to death.

The qunari shrugged while taking a wary step forward. “Guess I figured you poncy ‘vints would only sip the blood of a freshly-bled peacock from a dainty crystal flute.”

“You mean before we’ve gorged ourselves on the blood of innocent children? Or after?” When the Butcher let out a growl that warned Dorian not to push his luck he sneered in response, tucking the blood vials into the pouch at his hip. “The taste of peacock blood would be just as offensive as a rat’s, I assure you.”

“I’m sure once you’ve burned out your body on Ritual Blood, not much else will do the trick.”

It was a rather pointed accusation. The Butcher’s facts were certainly accurate enough, and Dorian doubted arguing that he in fact _hadn’t_ burned himself out on the toxic blood would do much good. He deflected instead. “Still less of a threat than that slop Ferelden’s call stew, I’m sure.”

There was a strategy to his quips, to the venomous banter between them. He was hoping that the Butcher would let his guard down, misjudge the threat Dorian posed and leave himself open. Unfortunately the Butcher was just as wary as ever as he eyed him, in fact the amount of suspicion and mistrust every time he opened his mouth was practically palpable. He might not have encountered many vampires capable of wit amongst the Venatori, but that certainly didn’t mean he was going to give Dorian any slack whatsoever.

Frustrating, but if Dorian played the long game eventually the Butcher would begin to doubt himself. All he needed was an opportunity.

With his head far less foggy and the desperation born from hunger lifted, Dorian found himself far more alert on the walk back. He heard footsteps of the other hunters in the Butcher’s group echoing in the distance, a sinking sort of feeling at just how carefully they had spread out to entrap him.

He’d really had no chance at all, the realization making him grit his teeth and think very unflattering thoughts of the Butcher walking next to him.

He wasn’t unaware of the fact that the giant man was studying him closely, staying within arms reach at all times. There was perhaps a little more curiosity mixed into the potent loathing that settled between them, but Dorian was completely unsure if that could be used to his advantage or not.

The Butcher held the Inn door open for him, giving a mocking little bow as Dorian swept past him, glaring daggers at each other as he was returned to his makeshift prison.

The Innkeeper was wise enough not to question as he slapped more money on the counter for his room, though it did not escape Dorian’s notice that her gaze darted to the Butcher on a regular basis.

Dorian added coin to the pile for a bath and as much wine as he could carry.

“Another night for everyone, the Iron Bull?” The Innkeeper asked the Butcher sweetly, while Dorian awaited his wine from one bar maids. _The Iron Bull_. What a fitting name for a murderous ox.

“You betcha.” The Iron Bull said back, returning her smile with something lazy and far too salacious to be appropriate. When the Innkeeper dipped away to check on Dorian’s still-missing wine, the Butcher turned his attention to Dorian and gave the man a rather rude smirk.

“Rutting with the staff I see.” Dorian quipped, curling his upper lip in what he hoped appeared to be haughty disgust. “Here I thought you beasts only capable of killing once you went rogue.”

The Butcher sneered at him. “And you think a murdering leech from the Venatori is in a position to judge someone a beast?”

“You know a lot less about me, _The Iron Bull,_ than you think you do.”

“The same could be said of your knowledge of me, ‘vint.” The Butcher growled, and Dorian got the feeling that this conversation was far more likely to lead in violence than their previous ones.

The barmaid with an armful of wine bottles for him picked that time to arrive, defusing the near explosive situation as she began to unload the bottles with a cheerful smile.

“Here you are, Serah. If there’s anything else you need, please feel free to ask.” She said with a polite little curtsey before she scurried back to the Tavern.

Dorian plucked up the bottles, tucking them under his arms and balancing them best he could to carry them all back to his room. The Butcher grabbed the last bottle off the countertop just as Dorian was reaching for it, making a show of checking the label though there was no doubt he was just being antagonistic.

“I’ve seen your kind play this game before.” He said, tone serious and quiet and so very pointed Dorian paused in his motion to snatch his wine back out of the Butcher’s hand. “You can play all the games you want, it’s not going to get you out of this.”

“If you had proof of anything you’re accusing me of, you’d have called a proper Hunt and killed me already.” Dorian snapped, glaring over his armful of wine. “You’re grasping at straws, hoping to bait me into incriminating myself--”

“I _know_ what you are!” The Iron Bull hissed, voice raised though there was no one in this part of the Inn now to say anything -- probably wise enough to scatter. “You play your games and think yourself  too superior to everyone to get caught, and I’ve had _enough._ I won’t be tricked by some monster smart enough to hide behind a pretty face.”

“Well it’s certainly preferable to your kind that leave nothing of their nature to the imagination.” Dorian snarled back, riled as ever with the crawling sense of dread that he wouldn’t be able to find a way out of this one.

“Run and hide in your room, little vampire.” The Butcher growled, closing the space between them to loom menacingly over Dorian, though the only move he made was to plunk the bottle he’d snatched into Dorian’s arms, clinking it against the others. “Maybe your little Coven will come and save you, hm? I’d like that.”

The sinister baring of teeth was enough to make Dorian’s stomach clench at the thought of this asshole harming anyone in his coven. He hoped above all else that it _wouldn’t_ come to that, that he would be able to escape here before they came looking for him.

Instead he muttered a couple of curses and elbowed his way past the Hunter, refusing to let his concerns show as he head up the stairs to his room. When he glanced back the Butcher was still standing there, watching him carefully to make sure he didn’t try anything. In a gesture copied from Dorian previously, the silver-skinned man blew a kiss with an antagonistic smirk, laughing when Dorian returned it with an upward jab of his middle finger.

He muttered obscenities as he put his wine down on the table, checking the labels and picking out the best (though that was a very relative term) and biting the cork out of it with a sharp fang. The room was different from his previous one, no window but a bronze tub instead. The bucket next to it was a rudimentary suggestion as to how to fill it with water, though Dorian had no intentions of leaving the room, content to use his magic instead.

As he drew his seals across the door to prevent any unwelcome visitors, he let out an exhausted sigh and slumped into the worn chair provided, rubbing a hand over his face as he calmed his thoughts. When he glanced up he noticed the small mirror leaning against the wall in front of him, eventually leaning forward to examine his reflection. Tired and worn, his mustache was frazzled and in need of care, his skin showing more color than it had previously, but certainly a vial of animal blood wasn’t enough to bring him back to fighting shape.

If he killed someone and drained their blood, he’d enough magic to punch through the Butcher’s aura and teleport away. With some effort he could stay ahead of the hunters long enough to collect his coven mates and leave Ferelden.

It kept circling in his mind, yet he knocked it away once again, firm in his resolve. _A monster wearing a pretty face_ , at one point it had been a true concern of his, things like morality and the line between man and monster, even when the dredges of his humanity died off. Now, he knew better. As his kin threw themselves into the terrible Labyrinth beneath the Deep Roads, gorging themselves on the corrupted power they found there, the difference between he and them became ever more starkly painted.

The Venatori had to be stopped before their pursuit of power woke something even more horrific than the Elder Ones they venerated with such fervor. There was something here that they wanted, which meant Dorian and his Coven, the Lucerni, could not stand to let them have it.

He would not be driven from his goal, no Grey Butcher would get in his way, or drive him to become like the monsters he loathed.

So Dorian tipped back the bottle of wine and drank greedily, enjoying the taste of something other than ash, even if the alcohol itself had no effect whatsoever.

Maybe the Butcher would realize he was targeting the wrong vampire before the Venatori got what they came for, and all of Denerim sunk into the Deep Roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the Bloodborne overtones that I've mixed heavily into this AU's world start to come out. /o/ Anyone who's played it might notice some of the things I've pulled from it, but it's not strong enough to call this a crossover by any stretch, and familiarity with it will not really impact your understanding of the story. The Labyrinth and Ritual Blood, while pulled out of Bloodborne, are all explained and firmly set in Dragon Age's lore. 
> 
> Basically, I've just had too much damn fun building this world.
> 
> If you've enjoyed it feel free to comment and let me know, I love getting feedback. I'm also available on [Tumblr](http://suicausa.tumblr.com). Feel free to chat at me there as well!


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